


warmth

by acetheticallyy (jacquesdernier)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Couch Cuddles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:36:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9433190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacquesdernier/pseuds/acetheticallyy
Summary: The day ends like it always ends.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for an anon over on tumblr that said "ahh could i request mitch/auston, cuddles?"
> 
> if you found this bc you were googling yourself/someone you know then a: I'm sorry, and b: you might wanna stop reading, unless you're into this sort of thing, in which case who am I to stop you

The day ends like it always ends. Good, bad, win, loss...no matter the day's events you always end up in the same place. You prefer it on a good day, just after a win even better, but the thing is, when it comes down to it, you wouldn't trade it for anything. It makes the bad days better. It makes the losses bearable. It makes the good days great, and when you're still riding the high of a win, it makes you feel like you're on top of the world.

So the day ends like it always ends, with the two of you sprawled on opposite ends of the couch, gravitating slowly towards each other until you eventually meet in the middle in one uncoordinated lump of blankets and limbs and pillows. The pillows always make you sigh. Mitch loves pillows; they drive _you_ crazy.

The pillows get tossed away--carelessly, with a playful edge of defiance--and you lean against each other, just sharing space, sharing air. A smile plays at the corners of his mouth, his eyes sparkle, and you know what that look means, you've seen it a million times before, always aimed at you, always with a soft air of exasperation. There is a lecture somewhere in that look, one that has devolved into soft eyes and dimples, about how you should treat the furniture better and the pillows were there for comfort and now your bony ass was digging into his hip. It was a half-hearted complaint at best, a fond back and forth in reality, creating an excuse for you to tip his chin gently upward until his face is angled towards yours and he is looking at you from underneath eyelashes that cast shadows over his cheekbones, lips already parted in anticipation. He knows this song and dance already, moves as comfortable and confidently here as he does on the ice, perhaps even more so.

It makes you glad that this is one of the days you come home from a good win, pliant and happy and giggling, both of you easily trading smiles and leaning into each other, arms warm and light and secure as they wrap around each other's waist.

If this was a loss, if it was a bad day, your limbs would be heavier, your faces would be harder, more set into the lines of your bones, the sharp edges of your skeleton standing out and framing your features and your posture into something closer to grief or disappointment than the happiness and the buoyancy that settles in your chest now. Smiles would come less easily, muscles fighting to undo the clench of your jaw to allow the corners of your mouth to turn up slightly, making the gesture appear sluggish and empty.

Everything would be muted, slow. Everything would be heavy and tired, dragging you both down. Rather than melting into each other, you would lean and push and slide further and further down until you were both lying on your side, arms clenched around each other like you were desperate for something. For what, you wouldn't be sure, you never quite were, but you knew the closeness helped, and so you held as tight as you could.

There would be conversation in stops and starts, both of you trying to reassure the other, both of you blaming yourselves. Your words would be bitten off, talked over, until eventually you would settle into silence, a silence very much unlike the easy, comfortable silence you had now. The silence there would be thick and full of words unsaid, of tension, of a burning in your eyes and a twisting in your gut, until you were worn out and you would shut your eyes and the night would melt away into an uneasy slumber.

But as it is now, the sun feels as if it has settled between the two of you, warm and safe, keeping the room bright and alive, even as the sky outside darkens and you begin to hear crickets chirping on the other side of your windows.

As it is now, everything comes easy. The conversation flows, never louder than a whisper, floating gently in and out, the spaces in between words full of a silence so gentle you barely even knew it was there until a noise from outside broke through your awareness.

You feel like you could live forever in a moment like this, and you've tried. You've tried struggling to keep your eyes open, even as his eyelids droop lower and lower, even as his breath evens out and his weight becomes heavier against your side, as if keeping your eyes wide open would keep everything stuck in time, just like this. As if time would stop if only you could stay awake. If only you could keep your eyes open and your mind running, the clock would never turn past midnight, and you would be stuck here, in this moment, like a fly in amber, preserved in some far off museum behind plexiglas walls. It wouldn't be such a bad life, you think.

But eventually your exhaustion catches up with you, and before you know it, it is the morning and the sun is filtering through your windows. Before you know it, your eyes are fluttering open, without any memory of having even closed them in the first place.

You're still on the couch, but you're stretched out along the length of the cushions, blanket wrapped tight around you. You can smell coffee brewing, drifting into the living area from the kitchen, and if you wait a couple of beats you know you'll hear the click of the stove being turned on, accompanied by the sizzle of something wet hitting a heat source.

In a few minutes, you'll get up, stretch out your limbs, and tell yourself that you won't let yourself fall asleep on the couch ever again. You'll cross the room until you reach the kitchen, complaining the whole way about how he let you sleep on the couch again, and he'll turn to greet you with a lopsided smile, telling you that "I shook you four times and pushed you off the couch on accident, if you don't wake up after that I'm not carrying your ass up the stairs." You'll come up behind him and hook your chin over his shoulder, arms settling around his middle, and he'll lean into you for a moment before pressing a kiss against your jaw and telling you to "get the plates Auston, Jesus, do I have to do everything myself?"

You'll push and shove for a minute, before breakfast is really in danger of burning, and he'll remove it from the heat just in time, pushing you down the counter space pointedly, nodding his head towards the cupboards.

Every day starts exactly the same, whether the night before was bad or good or in between. It is a fresh start, and it is also a rewind. You are both moving on and going backwards, forgetting what happened the day before and committed to starting anew the next.

And then, once the time passes and the sun crosses the sky and you've crossed the threshold once again, it will start all over. Just like the day before that, and the day before that, and every day since this whole thing started. The day will end just like it always ends.


End file.
